


This map, this love, this life

by Frangipanidownunder



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2020-01-16 04:44:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18514159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frangipanidownunder/pseuds/Frangipanidownunder
Summary: Discovering Scully's erogenous zones.





	This map, this love, this life

He’s been making a map since that first night she slipped in to his bed, quiet as still water, as deep and expansive too. He plunged in, she poured herself over him. For hours, she drip-fed him moans and sighs that flowed through his veins, flooding him with a swell of love. It unsteadied him, tipped him this way and that. He rolled with it, though, sailed along with her, cresting the waves, charting each spot.

There are compass points. Under her ear, velvet soft. The line of her jaw to the dip under her mouth. Her lips, plump like summer raspberries. The tip of her nose and higher, where the deathly clump of cells once grew. He always kisses her twice, three times to make sure she knows he loves all of her, the sublimely familiar and the once foreign.

The side of her neck, he has noticed, causes her nipples to tighten and he tests the limits of her endurance with tiny open mouthed kisses, pressing so that his teeth brush the skin there. When she writhes beneath him it triggers a response in him so electric, he could spark fires for days. She’s his conductor, his energy source. Lightning to his ever-brewing thunder.

The shape of her breasts, the taste of them, the contradictory soft weight of them in his hand, his mouth, is a place he returns to over and over. Then there are the silvery threads across her navel that tell a sad story. He proclaimed early on that the story can be righted, the silver can be turned pink, given life, when he nibbles and tugs at the flesh there. That first time his tongue traced the delicate ridge of the marks, she pushed him away, let her cheek rest on the pillow so that her hair covered her eyes. But he loved it all the same, loved her. Loved the lesson she was meted. Loved the injustice she will always bear. He’d happily swallow her pain. Time and again. He’d open up his throat, his heart, his soul for her.

Her hip, over the bone. He rubs it with the pad of his thumb and the downy hairs raise across her stomach. He sucks, licks. She bucks, sighs, lets her knees fall open so the musky, citrus tang of her draws his mouth down. There are sweet spots inside her thighs, where the skin stipples as his lips caress her. His nose buried in her wet curls, his tongue wading through her viscid folds, his chin exerting the kind of pressure that has her heels digging in and her fingers grasping his hair, has her calling his name. If he laughs, she trembles; if he sighs, she shudders; if he sucks harder, she tugs at him, and his work, his study of her is impressed in his senses even deeper.

This map of Scully is etched in his mind, an eternal inscription, memorised at each turn, rise, junction. There is no straight, unending road. There are only surprise corners and hidden valleys and peaks to climb that leave him breathless. He knows her terrain, her contours. Yet she still blindsides him. It’s primordial, it’s new, this map, this love, this life.


End file.
